Too old to be a hero

Too old to be brave

Too old to be marching

To an early grave

Too worn to contribute

Too torn to care

Too forlorn to shoulder

My own fair share

Too tired to stand up

Not wired to fight

Cremated, not fired up

By the wrong and the right

I hand over my remnants

Canned and enslaved

And watch them land

In the early grave

I carefully tended

From a very young age

With love and affection

And copious rage.